The blog in which I am easily impressed with a monogram, and I stole something.

Well, if that title doesn't grab ya', I don't know what will.  After Charlie was born, I breastfed.  That seems like such an understatement.  I freakin' fed a small third world country is more like it.  I pumped, fed, and pumped some more.  I worked the urgent care back then, and pumped so much there that room number 6 was were I did my pumping, and often, my coworkers would walk by and make a "mooing" sound.  Good times.  Well, five months after I shot Chazman out of me, I found out I was preggers with child number two.  Basically, that only meant that I was going to be a human milk producer for longer than I planned on.  So, I pumped and nursed for almost two years.  I found that I true to my form, if I am going to do something, I am going to do it better than anyone around.  Well, I did.  I pumped so much that I was able to donate my surplus breast milk to babies in need.  The national breast milk bank LOVED me!  One year, they sent me a Christmas card, with the picture of their staff, all had signed the card, and this small note pad that had my name monogrammed on it.  I felt so fancy.  I very rarely use it.  It seems so fancy to me.  Well, yesterday, I had to write a note to the teacher about something, and it was the only blank paper in the drawer.  I was laughing when I found it, as it reminds me of the best memories of when the children were babies.  (I didn't like when they were babies, and the best times were  literally when my mom and husband and I were tearing about the freezers trying to sort the frozen milk and package it in chronological order in huge coolers that we shipped across the country to California.)  Trust me.  It was the best of those times.   Anyway, I wrote the note, then circled the website for the breast milk bank, informed her of my super human power and how I got the notepad.  I hope she doesn't take that as a personal challenge- to obtain a monogrammed note pad in exchange for the breast milk.  I'd be more than happy to get her one, as a teacher gift, if she really liked it.  I am just more competitive than I need to be on this one, huh?  

My very own monogrammed notepad. 

My hours of pumping paid off.  

It is the season of Advent in the liturgical calendar year.  It is my most favorite liturgical season, and that is saying a lot.  (Not really.)  Anyway, I love this time of year, and while I am the worst Catholic there is, they still let me call myself that, and so, in thanksgiving to that, I feel the need to attend confession.  Not often.  Just like, ya' know, "that" often.   Like all the other not so great Catholics.  It is best to attend around a holiday, or the end of the world.   I am totally multi-tasking this one.  And what, pray tell, am I going to confess?  In general, I use the same sin over and over.  (I haven't stopped doing it, and that is why I keep confessing it.  It's not that the priest didn't do his part.  It's just that I don't listen so well.)  It's hard to examine one's conscience, and then decide on just a few.  I sinned a  few times in the past hour.  Probably more than a few.  How many is "a few?"  If more than three, then you will have to replace that term with a more appropriate one.  My apologies.  See, I am not a math major. I didn't go to  college.  Ask Shay.  She'll tell you.  Often.

So, I was talking to some neighbors recently, and I am not exactly sure how it came up, but I mentioned how one day, I was cleaning out under my sink, and found two disposable gynecological speculum's.  I must have stolen them from my job, many moons ago.  Why?  Well, there is a VERY good reason for it.  But the reason is not  as important as the confession.  The problem is, the job I stole them from is no longer in business, and now, I can't apologize for that, properly.  (As if there actually is a "proper" way to apologize for stealing a gynecological disposable instrument.)  So, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart.  In choosing to steal a vaginal instrument, and failing to leave it in that torture table with stirrups, I have stolen from the best doctor I ever worked for, who I loved above all other doctors. I firmly intend, with your help, to publicly (NOT pube-lically)  admit to this, to not steal gynecological speculum's, ever, and to avoid the gynecologist.  I mean it.  Our lord, Jesus Christ, suffered and died for my speculum stealing, and all the other little piddily stuff I have done, in His name, have mercy.

Whew.   I feel so much better.  I should have done that ages ago!  Thanks for letting me take care of that with you.  And the reason for the steal-age?  Well, the Catholic church does not support birth control, and the only form that can be used is called "natural family planning."  It is an amazing process, and yet, if done correctly, it works.  We needed to find my cervix, and in the beginning, it was a struggle to find it.  So, I brought those home, to aide in our desire to make mad, passionate monkey love in the beginning of our marriage, and to ensure we did not conceive, and now, in trying to stay within the boundaries of the church teaching, I sinned.

PS  Monkey love= stupid newlywed action that my husband hasn't seen since those speculum's were used.  Please don't mention that to him.  Poor little fella'.